Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Friday, September 25, 2015 — 5A
‘Executioner’ not
so well executed
New FX series
pushes the
boundaries
By MATT BARNAUSKAS
Daily Arts WRiter
This article contains spoilers for
the finale of “Sons of Anarchy.”
Kurt Sutter, for better or worse,
has
become
a go-to guy
for FX. Ever
since
his
involvement
as a writer
and eventual
producer for
Shawn Ryan’s
“The Shield,”
Sutter has risen in prominence
among the network with “Sons
of Anarchy,” which became one
of FX’s most popular series at the
time of its finale in 2014.
Now, in 2015, Sutter continues
to call FX home with his newest
series, “The Bastard Executioner,”
a show that continues the usual
themes that dominate his earlier
work while displaying some of the
showrunner’s biggest flaws.
At the core of Sutter’s creations
is violence. His worlds are nasty
and brutal, forming a cycle of suf-
fering and despair that few can
escape. In “Sons of Anarchy,” Jax
Teller fought for seven seasons to
end the savagery around SAM-
CRO, only to be sucked into its
black hole of barbarity, with death
being the only salvation for the
troubled biker.
This idea echoes within “The
Bastard Executioner” through the
story of medieval warrior Wilkin
Brattle (Lee Jones, “Home and
Away”). Opening with a flashback,
Brattle lies wounded on the battle-
field when a vision of a child tells
him to “Lay down the sword” and
“Live the life of a different man.”
Brattle, still haunted by visions
of his tormented past, takes the
words to heart and settles in Wales
with his wife Petra (Elen Rhys,
“World War Z”). Living in a time
of political upheaval and rebel-
lion against the power of England,
Brattle finds his promise hard to
keep as, armed with a club instead
of a sword, he assists the local reb-
els in their guerilla resistance.
One of the biggest issues “Sons
of Anarchy” experienced during
its extended run was the general
expansion of its storyline and sub-
plots into an unruly and bloated
beast. This issue carries over to
“The Bastard Executioner” as
the weight of the narrative nearly
crushes
the
premiere.
Clock-
ing in at just over 90 minutes, the
premiere takes a long time intro-
ducing its huge cast of main and
supporting characters, with sev-
eral killed off within the same epi-
sode. It’s unfortunate because the
ensemble is impressive, but there’s
not really enough time for most of
them to forge an initial connection
to the audience.
Not until 40 minutes into the
pilot, when villains Baron Ventris
(Brían F. O’Byrne, “Aquarius”) and
Milus Corbett (Stephen Moyer,
“True Blood”) order the massacre
of Brattle’s village, does the narra-
tive truly pick up.
The village massacre is just one
of many sequences of extended
violence, but it is definitely the
most disturbing as mostly women
and children, including the preg-
nant Petra, are slaughtered in
the dark, and orange flames shed
light on the atrocity. Sutter never
shies away from viciousness, but
it sometimes seems a little much,
as if he wants to show how many
different ways a person can be
stabbed in one episode.
Under the direction of Paris
Barclay, director of 15 “Sons of
Anarchy” episodes, most of these
scenes work on a basic level. Brat-
tle’s vengeful ambush of Ventris
in a hayfield is a highlight of the
pilot, if only for the appearance of
“The Americans” ’s Matthew Rhys
as a Welsh rebel leader. However,
there are missteps. The choice of
an electric guitar to orchestrate
the village massacre feels tonally
unwelcome, and the opening flash-
back displays some color over-sat-
uration that makes the scene feel
somewhat cheap.
It’s funny that the show is
called, “The Bastard Executioner,”
but Brattle, under the urgings of
the mysterious and manipulative
healer, Annora (“Sons of Anarchy”
alum Katey Sagal), doesn’t truly
assume the title position until
more than an hour has passed,
when he takes the identity of the
deceased executioner, Maddox
(Felix Scott, “The Interceptor”)
In that fact lies “The Bastard
Executioner” ’s biggest issue —
inside this swollen premiere are
decent foundations for a series.
Brattle’s first execution is a well-
done moment of choice, merg-
ing the show’s past and present
through the man’s visions. Unfor-
tunately, the show is so extrane-
ously dense that it takes far too
long to get to this point. Sutter
needs to cast aside this unneces-
sary baggage present in the pilot
and cut to the heart of the new
series if he hopes to bring contin-
ued success to FX.
FX
“Just pretend we’re ‘Game of Thrones’.”
A
The Bastard
Executioner
Series Premiere
Tuesdays at
10 p.m.
FX
TV REVIEW
New ‘Who’ revives
old doctor’s panache
By DREW MARON
Daily Arts Writer
The Doctor is in the building
and he brought horrible puns
and an electric guitar. Were you
expecting
someone
else?
It’s
quite
a hard thing
to
review
“Doctor
Who”
because
no
matter what
you think of
it, someone,
somewhere
will disagree with everything you
have ever stood for. Some folks
stopped watching after William
Hartnell’s First Doctor (like, you
know, your grandparents), while
others have only ever seen Matt
Smith’s Eleven.
The current era has been
met with controversy (to say
the least), namely directed at
show-runner
Steven
Moffat
(“Sherlock”) and his inability
to bring more diversity to the
Who Universe. I personally
agree with this sentiment, yet
I still respect the ineluctable
contribution Moffat has made
to taking The Doctor out of
your parent’s basement and into
the hearts of the entire world.
I also have to say that I love
Peter Capaldi’s Doctor. Believe
it or not, Moffat is way more
attuned to the original vision of
the Doctor than most fans wish
to admit. In his first adventures,
the Doctor was shrewd, rude
and a little impatient with his
human companions. He was, in
short, a grumpy old man who
had just about had it up to here
with the universe, and he didn’t
care who he forced to listen.
Clearly, this is the iteration
of the Doctor Moffat feels the
most connected to, and it’s one
I prefer to Matt Smith’s quirky,
bouncy ball of fun. Moffat,
someone who gets a bad rep
for making “Doctor Who” a tad
too serious, still knows how to
fill his odd-ball time-lord with
lovable idiosyncrasies, this time
an electric guitar and sunglasses
in 1198 A.D. England.
Like
many
of
Moffat’s
adventures
into
the
Who
Universe,
the
season
nine
premiere,
“The
Magician’s
Apprentice,” treats the canon
and mythology of the Doctor
like a giant sandbox filled
with previously unanswered
(and sometimes unanswerable)
questions.
“The
Magician’s
Apprentice” continues in the
vein of “Into the Dalek” (a
personal
favorite
of
mine)
by
exploring
the
creation,
psychology and circumstances
behind a species of absolute
evil, the Daleks. Moffat’s ideas
are often so insane, yet obvious,
you feel yourself always asking
why no one has ever thought of
doing it before.
In this case, we explore the
exact relationship the Doctor
has with Davros, the inventor
of the Daleks. There’s more
A
Dr. Who
Season 9
Premiere
Saturdays
at 9 p.m.
BBC America
than a little “Harry Potter”
vibe to this episode, as Davros’s
serpentine servants abduct the
Doctor, Clara (Jenna Louise
Coleman, “Captain America:
The First Avenger”) and the
Master (Michelle Gomez, “The
Brink”). The trio are brought to
Davros’s homeworld of Skaro
so that the Doctor may speak
with the inventor before he
dies … or so it seems.
The episode ends on a “To
Be
Continued”
card
which
will undoubtedly anger those
who have dismissed the more
serialized format “Doctor Who”
has taken on at the helm of
Moffat. The format feels more
like serialized prose or stories,
like that of Dickens and other
authors of Victorian serials.
The one thing I’m uncertain
about the new season is the
direction of the Master as a
possible
anti-hero.
Moffat
makes
it
clear
with
the
Master’s murder of the agents
that this is still the Master and
should not be trusted, but I still
don’t believe that the entire
millennia of conflict between
the Master and the Doctor was
just “flirting.” That being said,
the show does do a great deal
in contextualizing the Doctor’s
hatred of the Master with his
hatred of Davros. The Master
is still a Time Lord / Lady, and
there’s definitely a familiarity
there, even if the show presents
it as more intimate than some
fans might be comfortable
with. With Davros, the biggest
thing the Doctor can relate to
is the fact that they have both
done horrible things which
they self-justify.
BBC AMERICA
“Look at my pants.”
The season 9
premier treats
the canon like a
giant sandbox.
MUSIC NOTEBOOK
Oh, Fetty Wap, won’t
you come my way?
By MELINA GLUSAC
Daily Arts Writer
The year is 1738. Many people
are plagued with smallpox or
other legitimate, more pressing
problems (FOMO on the birth
of King George III?) — but me,
myself? I’m stricken with Fetty
Wap fever.
Before we get down to it,
there’s one thing you should
know: hip hop is not my
preferred genre. This just in —
white girl from cushy Michigan
suburb not the world’s biggest
fan of rap music. More at 11.
It’s no secret, and it’s no
surprise. David Bowie gets me
going, as do Sarah Vaughan,
Elliott Smith and The Kinks.
Of course, as a music writer, I
pride myself on listening to a
myriad — by the truest sense
of the word — of genres. Jazz,
R&B, neo-soul, pop-y pop, folk,
etc. (Admittedly, Johnny Cash
is about as far as I’ll go into
country. Maybe Shania Twain if
I’m feeling frisky.) But dabbling
in hip hop is not exactly
the most relaxing listening
adventure for me. I love it; I
appreciate it. I could rap “The
Real Slim Shady” to you right
now, in its entirety, and have a
damn good time doing it. But
it’s just not the butter to my
bread. Given the choice, I’d pick
Marvin Gaye over Kan-yeezy
almost every time.
Lately, though, I’ve been
walking around campus sans
any
typical
tunes
beating
through my head. “679” by
Fetty Wap and Remy Boyz has
taken over. Stepping out of my
dorm (“… and I got this sewed
up”), riding down the elevator
(“Remy Boyz, they know us”),
eating a bagel (“all fast money,
no slow bucks”), walking to
class (“no one can control us”)
and sitting down in lecture (“ay,
yeeEEEAaah baby”). It won’t
leave me, no matter how hard
I try.
Mr.
Wap,
born
Willie
Maxwell in 1991, is a fascinating
creature. He catapulted into
the spotlight this summer with
the melodically minimalistic
smash “Trap Queen,” a strange
song upon closer examination.
There are about five notes sung
throughout the whole thing
(same three in the verses, same
two in the chorus, excluding
the rap), and pixie-like, staccato
synths
run
rampant.
It’s
appealing from the get-go but
ultimately lacks variety —not
exactly what you’d call “chart
bait” in a day and age where
constant shock-factor is needed
to hold a listener’s attention. To
boot, it introduced the world
to that signature Wap vibrato
we now love/hate: “… getting
fly with my baby, yeEEEAaah.”
Never has a goat in heat
yodeling about his boo thang
sounded so hot.
Since then, my beloved “679”
and “My Way,” which features a
perfect verse from Drake, have
secured Wap’s place in pop
music’s vocabulary. Plus his
debut album is set to come out
on Sept. 25. Most importantly,
though, people listen to Fetty
Wap. Whether it’s ironic or
not, “I’m like hey, what’s up,
hello” has worked its way into
Instagram captions worldwide.
Speaking of irony: this could
be debated, but quite a few
listeners dig Wap because they
think he’s hilarious. Almost
everyone
with
whom
I’ve
discussed mentions his one
eye and bursts out laughing
(glaucoma stole the other from
us, may it rest), and my friend
often tries to mimic his weirdly
strained
singing.
Also,
his
music isn’t really respected in
the way, say, Kendrick Lamar’s
is. As of late, hip hop has
become a platform for artists
like Lamar to convey heavier
subject
matter,
i.e.
their
dissatisfaction
with
police
brutality,
the
implications
of and stereotypes involved
with being a famous African
American man, etc. Fetty Wap
raps about squadding up and
chillin’ with his girl. Even
newcomer
and
surprising
tickler-of-my-fancy
Vince
Staples talks about his girl on
“Lemme Know,” but since he’s
less mainstream — and perhaps
a bit more lyrically deft — the
music seems less trivial.
OK. That’s all peachy. But I
still can’t sweat out my Fetty
Wap fever. Even though he’s
“trivial” and Cyclop-tic and
repetitive and odd, I still enjoy
listening to Fetty Wap.
The key word there is “enjoy.”
Just because an artist isn’t as
intellectual, as critically adored
as one of his contemporaries
doesn’t mean he isn’t successful
at his job. Wap resonates with
the masses arguably better
than any other pop and hip-hop
artist out there right now — and
he does so in a deeply enjoyable
way. And though the word is
grossly overused, his music is
fun, above all else. He makes
me dance like an inebriated
aunt at a wedding, sing along
obnoxiously and laugh at the
absurdity of it all. I can’t say
that for many other current
musicians. In my fevered past
week, I’ve loved nothing more
than putting the fun back into
my life and my playlists amid
swirls of homework and new
classes.
This is college, after all.
Sometimes I don’t want to
think. I just want to party like
it’s 1738.
300 ENTERTAINMENT
Everybody wants to be Fetty Wap.
TV REVIEW